Are You There? It's Me, Sam Winchester
by ChiefenginnerJenna
Summary: Sam's life growing up is rough. He doesn't get along with his father, and he can't begin to understand his brother. He turns to prayer. No one seems to be answering, though. Until he tries a different approach: pray to the angels. Slight AU. Eventual Sabriel.
1. Hello?

**New story! Finally! Enjoy, just a head's up that I do not own any of these characters, and the title is a play on "Are You There, God? It's Me, Margaret." By Judy Bloom. Also, warning for a bit of language. **

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Sam Winchester really hates his life sometimes. Sometimes being every other day, or when his father is being particularly annoying. Such as today. It all started at the ass crack of dawn with a horn in his ear.

"The house is under attack."

Yeah, right. Since when have they ever stayed in a house?

"A vampire pack has surrounded all exits including windows."

It's rather bright out for vampires, don't you think?

"Dean, what do you do?"

Of course. Go to Dean first. Dean, the bright little soldier. Dean the perfect, shining example of what a hunter should be.

The drill actually didn't go all too bad. Sam went through the motions, halfheartedly pretending to slash the heads off of invisible creatures. He hit all the targets dead center during their fire range practice, ran three miles, and ate his cereal in complete silence.

His father didn't seem to appreciate the lack of enthusiasm.

"What if this had been real, Sam?"

Sam shrugs. He'd probably be dead. That wouldn't be so bad, would it? It'd beat living in fear every constant waking moment of his life. Just waiting for some monster to gank them.

"I can tell you what would have happened. You would have got us all killed!"

Another shrug. Eat more of these off brand of the off brand fruit loops. Stale, and the box was just opened five minutes ago.

"That doesn't matter to you? None of this matters to you!" Well, sounds like Mr. High and Mighty just answered himself, which means Sam could just look up at those blazing dark eyes and say nothing. Dean waits in the corner of the kitchen like he always does, ready to step in and take any blow that could be made out of a "bad decision" or "a really heated moment" but that never matters because "he didn't mean to, Sammy" and "you know he gets a little touchy after a drink".

"Maybe I should stop caring about you!"

Hmm, that doesn't sound too much different than now.

"I can just forget to get groceries, stop enrolling you in school, take back all the clothes and useless books I bought you."

"They're not useless!"

He doesn't understand. No one understands. Hunting these…these creatures isn't helpful. There will always be another werewolf. Vampires will always exist so what is the point?

"You are never going to have to use that shit in your life!"

Sam isn't sure why he's out of his seat all of a sudden, but he is. He's shorter than John, shorter than Dean, and he has to look up just to reach the man's eyes.

"And _this_? Running around the country, scamming people, teaching us to lie and cheat and steal, that's important? That's the life lesson you want to instill on us?"

John probably doesn't even know the meaning of instil, but his jaw sets, his hands wavers by his side, and Dean takes a step forward. No, not this time. If John-his father wants to hit him, he can. That's not going to change the way he thinks.

"I'm showing you the importance of family. We're searching-"

"We're searching for the Fountain of Youth. El Dorado. A piece of hay in a needle stack!" Sam spews off. "We are never going to find the thing that killed mom! Never! So why can't we have just mourned like a normal family?"

There's no reply. John's jaw trembles. His eyes look red around the edges and even slightly wet. He raised his fist, then promptly drops it by his side. There's no anger in his eyes any more. He's disgusted, repelled by this thing he calls son. He never says that, but Sam doesn't have to be a mind reader to know what he means.

"Go to your room." It's not his father voice. It's not as rough and deep, but a bit higher, a quiver of fear in the first syllable. Sam glances over at his brother and sighs. He runs off to the adjoining room because Dean finally got to the size where they could not share a bed.

The door slams, and Sam crumples against it.

Why him? Why couldn't he be more like Dean? Why couldn't his father be a normal, sane man? Maybe he should run away, run away and live with his English teacher. He did talk to Sam quite a bit, always gave him new books to read and suggestions for his writing.

The young boy sniffs and wipes his nose before getting up and stumbling over to the bed. It' rock hard, groans every times he moves, and the sheets that always have one mysterious stain no matter what motel they're at for the night, or two nights, maybe even a week.

Damn his father.

Why can't he see that he's no better than the monsters he hunts? What they are, he is on the inside.

Sam lies there for minutes, hours, maybe even days. He can still hear the yelling and thudding outside the door. Dean the perfect soldier. Dean the human punching bag. Dean the savior. Dean the protector.

Sam the disappointment. Sam the fuck-up.

He turns on his side, tosses and turns until he's lying on his side and starring at the small nightstand between the two twin sized beds. There's scratches on the wood, flakes of it peeling off. The handle is loose, shakes in his fingers as he pulls open the only drawer.

A bible.

What else did he expect? A one way ticket to any other country but this one?

Sam stares at it before picking the dusty thing off. People have written their names inside, like it was theirs or maybe it's just a log of some sorts for everyone that passes through. Sam reads a bit, only half of Genesis.

He's prayed to God.

He prays every night and every morning but nothing ever happens.

Maybe that's not the way to go about it, though. If God has a full time job of running all of the universe and time and all that jazz, he's probably a bit too busy to answer petty calls from thirteen year olds.

Angels are mentioned throughout the bible. Large, beautiful creatures with swords that glow in flames and bodies too bright for eyes to see. The messengers of God. The soldiers of God.

Perhaps he just had the wrong address the entire time.

Sam picks out a name and decides to give it a try.

_Dear…well this is strange, how do I even title this thing? Dear, Michael, or Archangel Michael if that's how you guys say it up in Heaven. I've been having a hard time down here. No one seems to be answering my calls. I thought I'd try you. I just…I need a sign. Please? I just need to know if anything's going to get better. Is there anything I can do?_

His father doesn't speak t him for the rest of the might. Maybe that's a sign of hope.

XxxxX

Nothing else happens. Shit still gets shittier.

_Please. Michael? Zachariah? Anyone? Are you there? It's me, Sam Winchester._

XxxxX

_Okay, no book references. I get that. Not your style. Please help me. We're moving. Again. Some new town, and John just dropped us off, no money, no nothing, just kicked us out the car and said goodbye. Dean says he's coming back. I wish I had his faith. I wish I had money to buy a proper ice pack for his eye._

XxxxX

_Hello? _


	2. Gabriel

Sam stops praying after a couple of weeks. He's ran out of angels to try and reach. He's out of patience. Out of faith. He's running on empty now, just going from day to day. Grades slip. Dean keeps asking what's up and refuses to see the truth. Dad's not coming back. He left them.

Dean will leave sometime. Everyone does.

He doesn't make new friends. Doesn't even try. There's no point.

At least they have a bit of money from Dean's gambling. They have food now.

Sam sits at the table and refuses to move. He might as well stay at home. Clean his gun. Twiddle his thumbs. Wait for Dean to get back and then watch some mind-numbing TV. There's nothing to do at the moment. Nothing, but a single book to read.

The bible.

Not the best, but hey, it's better than Dean's porn magazines that he pretends he doesn't know about.

He gets to the whole Jesus part. Virgin Mary gets pregnant, and he sees a name he hasn't recognized.

"Gabriel."

The name sounds funny on his lips. He's never tried praying out loud before. But…it might work.

"Gabriel." He says it again, louder this time, and it feels a couple of degrees colder in the room, like a breeze had come through an open window or a ghost had entered. Sam decides to try this whole praying thing one more time.

"Hey, Gabriel. Archangel, right? Cool, cool…well I've tried this before and it hasn't seemed to work. Are my calls going through or is it like a long waiting line, and I'm on hold? I don't want much, just a simple hello. I just need to know there's some good out there, you know?"

This is ridiculous. He's asking a freaking Archangel of the Lord to pop in and say, "Yo, what's up?". It's not going to happen. Maybe there is no such thing as angels and Gods and Dean has been right this whole time.

Sam sits at the table with the bible open in his lap, and thuds his head down. Something rattles, though the rickety wood was empty just a moment ago. What the…there's a candy bar.

A chocolate candy bar near his head.

Well…it's not a no, angels don't exist sign.

Could just be a very strange coincidence.

Until it happens again. And again. Twizzlers in his pocket during class, a Milky Way on his pillow when he wakes up, and suckers just lying around the motel for him.

They all taste amazing, better than normal candy should and surprisingly it makes him start to feel a bit better too. He even jokes around with Dean for a bit, plays a couple of pranks on him for the fun of it. One of them included cutting out very burly pictures of men's faces and gluing them to every woman's face in his magazines. He's pretty sure Dean's scarred forever now.

He talks to him. Gabriel, that is. Says hello, thanks for the candy, talks about his family, his dad, how he wishes he could be like Dean, how he's glad he's nothing like Dean, how he wants to get away, how he fears that he can never escape the family business.

In return, he gets gummy bears.

Sam's not sure if that should have some higher meaning.


	3. The Trickster

**Sorry for taking so long to post an update. P.S. this story is now on AO3. **

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His head feels like it's about to explode, voices and words and images, emotions, filling every brim and pushing out on his skull, not this bone skull of the vessel, his actual skull-okay, let's stop there. His brain's a lot tougher than that. Hell, if an orgy with Romans and their gladiators didn't fray a few ends, this sure couldn't.

Or could it?

The trickster broke away from his family millions of years ago. Millions. Not hundreds of years, _millions_. Humans hadn't even evolved from their dimwitted (they were actually a fun gang to party with) ancestors. He knew he didn't want to be a part of whatever-that-was going to be. A hundred and twenty five percent sure. The other angels were still following their Daddy's footsteps, helping along all the organisms to their right fates. He was in charge of the reptiles.

Dinosaurs. Fucking awesome, right? He didn't stop at one or two, that'd be idiotic, no, he created a whole array of gigantic reptilian creatures.

Turned out humans, Dad's little trophies, could never even get to their time with those boogers around. No mammals could actually. Dinosaurs had to be killed, not as amazingly he had wanted. No, they said. Fire and destruction bad for the atmosphere. Our humans have to live, silly.

So flooding. Drowned every last of those bastards. He is still upset about that honestly.

They could've gone out with a bang, but they didn't.

Where is he going with all of this? Right, angels following God, but even then there were hints at rebellion, hatred of humans, blah, blah, blah. The trickster never felt like he fit in, boo hoo, and he became a Pagan god. Had a lot of fun. Still has a ton of fun.

And then those damn words had to find him. "Gabriel." Gabriel. He hasn't been called that in millennium.

It happens again, and again. Some…some kid talking to him. The second time his name is said, he's already in the motel room. Sam Winchester, thirteen years old, at Haughton High School currently, one older brother, one younger brother he doesn't know about on the way, and a father-where is John? Ah, there, Minnesota.

Why is Sam so upset? He hasn't called on his Grace in a while, besides calling up food and nice silk sheets for his favorite romps, oh shit, he left that mind blowlingly hot girl back at his 'house'. He should go back to her, damn could she make some gorgeous little noises, and yet here he is, starring into Sam Winchester's soul.

He's a good kid. Doesn't fit right in with his family, can't conform to be a soldier. Gabriel knows that feeling a little too well. He hasn't quiet felt the dark spot on his bright soul; however, yeah, he's not familiar with demon blood coursing through his blood. Plus, he's pretty damn sure none of his brothers have marked him with a huge yellow sign that screams, "Don't touch! Do not touch! I repeat, if you touch and fuck up the future for all of humanity, you will be killed. Mutilated. Mauled."

Eh, what can the trickster say? He's a bit of a fuck up (a major one, really) and he doesn't like to be told what to do.

So he touches.

Thaaaaaat came out wrong.

He does what he does best, he snaps his fingers and voila, there's the answer to all Sammy's problems right by his ear.

Chocolate.

Can't go wrong with chocolate and nougat. And caramel. Yum. Sam seems to like it. There. One good deed and act of rebellion for this century. The trickster stretches his wings and flies back to the girl with no name.

Thing is, the 'prayers' don't stop.

He can't help it, he looks deeper into Sam's life and learns that the kiddo has prayed to just about all his brothers and has given up on everyone he knows. So, the ex-angel (by rank only, he'd never give up his mojo) can't come out and tell Sam about the colossal flag on his back because the angels have some huge mumbo jumbo plan. He damn sure can't tell Sam about that dark splotch on his soul.

The kid is very organized. Every other day, five o'clock on the spot, Sam calls him up. He tells him about his day, just about everything under the sun and heaven, and asks an ass ton of questions. Maybe the trickster cannot answer verbally, but he can write them down.

What? Wasn't like it took a lot of _effort_.

Sam's favorite seems to be:

"Why candy?"

Uh, duh. It's the best thing. Ever.

"Why don't the other angels answer me?"

They're douches. Nope, scratch that. Mega douches. If you aren't in their charge, you're not gunna get answered. Hey, Monday babies rule!

(Well, that's not_ technically _a lie, is it?)

"Dean left. Juvie. I…just, is he coming back?"

Kiddo, you should be worrying about how you're going to get rid of that man.

"Is something wrong with me?"

Yes. You read awful books. Pick up something better. Like some freaking mythology. That's fun stuff. Or porn, teenagers like that, don't they?

Sam's going to love it. A long, multiple page handwritten list of all the answers to all that crazy kid's questions. He even made it organized! Like Sam does. And in cursive, just like how the kid writes all his homework. The trickster is going to hold out, though of course he will put out, always does. Shit. Again, that came out wrong.

Short and sweet: The trickster holds onto the pages until its Sam's fourteenth birthday.


End file.
